


Within a Gray Area

by dragon_with_a_teacup



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Aziraphale thinks about the concept of love, Character Study, Crowley appears briefly at the end, I Don't Even Know, Internal Monologue, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29410737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_with_a_teacup/pseuds/dragon_with_a_teacup
Summary: Aziraphale has seen a thousand, a hundred thousand, a hundred million examples of love. Love that starts battles and ends wars and breaks hearts and heals wounds. Love that moves mountains or raises cities or levels kingdoms or builds palaces. He thinks he has seen enough examples of love to know what it is, to know it when he sees it instilled, ingrained, in practice.After all, Aziraphale is a being created to, for, and by love.But so often, he wonders. Why does no one love the way he does?
Kudos: 13





	Within a Gray Area

Angels are created to love.

To love humans, specifically. The humans, in turn, not only get to experience love but so much more.

Angelic love is chaste and righteous and pure. It seems to spill out like sunbeams. The angels glow with it, spreading kindness and fraternity. Human love, on the other hand, is physical and intense and true. It seems to burn like fire. Humans don’t just glow with it; they are set alight.

Aziraphale has seen a thousand, a hundred thousand, a hundred million examples of love. Love that starts battles and ends wars and breaks hearts and heals wounds. Love that moves mountains or raises cities or levels kingdoms or builds palaces. He thinks he has seen enough examples of love to know what it is, to know it when he sees it instilled, ingrained, in practice.

After all, Aziraphale is a being created to, for, and by love.

But so often, he wonders. Why does no one love the way he does?

He doesn’t experience love like the other angels; he doesn’t think he ever has. Ever since he can remember, he has… well, _adored_ the humans. Not simply loved them in the slightly detached but still devoted way the other angels do, sprinkling miracles down to those they deem especially worthy. No, Aziraphale wants to interact, to be part of it all, to immerse himself so deeply in the ways of the humans that he can soak up their energy and spirit and life for himself. They are so clever, and so often funny, and so often kind. Certainly, they are also cruel and hurtful and selfish, but Aziraphale knows they are so much more. And he loves them.

Yet he doesn’t love them like they love each other. He doesn’t seek out the kind of passionate words and heated touches that humans exchange. Though he has never tried such things, they have never appealed to him. He has a feeling they would not suit him, or rather he does not suit them. A few humans, taken with his appearance or his actions, have tried to coax him into such activities, but Aziraphale has always backed away. He is an angel, he tells himself in those moments. He doesn’t feel _that_ sort of love for others.

Which of course, brings him back to the other frightening, confusing, inevitable truth—that he loves differently than the angels, too. Gabriel and Michael and the others, look at him and his clothes and his books and his food and scoff. The angels see him as indulgent, as sullying himself with gross matter, as marring himself. They look at him and declare that he isn’t doing this right.

But he isn’t doing it right by the standards of humans, either, because they—

Well, he’s been here before. Had this argument with himself before. Round and round and round it goes, always looping in on itself, treading the same pathways. Repetitive thoughts, cycling back without end. And always, he draws the same conclusion:

There is something wrong with him.

Well, perhaps he is in error to go that far. The Almighty doesn’t make mistakes. The angels were not made with flaws, and he is technically an angel. So he pulls away, time and time again, from that conclusion. Seeks another:

He is supposed to be this way. He is supposed to be different, separate not only from the humans but the other angels. For what purpose, well, that isn’t for him to know. It’s just his lot.

And so he carries it, not like a burden, but like an expectation. Something he is carrying because of course he is. It’s how things are. No point complaining about something that will not change, about something so intrinsic to who he is. Without it, he wouldn’t be himself, surely.

So, no, it isn’t a burden. It’s who he is, and it’s fine. It’s fine, even when the loneliness threatens to overwhelm him. Those quiet nights, he curls in on himself and yearns to be known. But it’s fine.

The angels don’t understand him. They seem to scorn him most of the time, and so he can hardly turn to them for solace.

The humans are too busy in their own lives, their own loves. Besides, he is an angel. He can hardly seek comfort from them. It wouldn’t be professional.

He could ask Crowley about it, he thinks.

Aziraphale is privy to so much of Crowley’s inner world, having heard facets of it spilled out over the years, flower petals scattered across the ground. He has heard of Crowley’s fall, his enduring but complicated relationship with God, his fondness for the humans that persists despite his role in their lives. Aziraphale knows all that, and so much more, and hears how easily Crowley handles it all.

Crowley is comfortable, proud of who he is, even if his journey here was traumatic and painful. Crowley has settled into his role, even if he doesn’t quite make sense even to others of his kind. He straddles the line between demonic and simply very human, and thrives there. Perhaps he doesn’t feel hate like the demons or feel love like the humans, but he feels disdain and affection both in such a… well, a Crowley-like way.

Aziraphale supposes he should be glad that Crowley tells him so much, but he never quite takes it for granted, even as years and centuries and millennia pass.

Because even when Crowley does reach out, there’s the persistent and nagging fear that it isn’t about Aziraphale at all. Crowley has been through so much, and he needs the companionship. But Aziraphale wonders—worries—that it’s not Aziraphale’s company in particular that Crowley longs for. Certainly, Aziraphale has made himself convenient and familiar over the years, but there is nothing about Aziraphale’s presence that cannot be provided elsewhere. Crowley could easily find someone else to share wine and stories and laughter with.

Aziraphale is not indispensable.

At least, so he fears. Sometimes he insists to himself that those doubts aren’t true, that he is overthinking things. But other times, when the loneliness clutches him, he knows—

He has not been, is not now, and will never be enough.

Besides, wanting Crowley to want him back as much isn’t fair. Aziraphale pushes Crowley away far too often. He downplays their relationship or walks away. A strange pattern of push and pull, of distancing and crashing back together, no rhyme or reason to the timing. Aziraphale’s moods are mercurial and confounding, even to himself.

So of course he is disposable; of course he is inadequate. He cannot be depended upon, and surely has convinced Crowley that despite his familiarity, Aziraphale is not someone he _needs_.

Still. What if he said it?

 _Crowley, dear_ , he imagines saying one evening over tea or wine or whiskey, _have you ever felt as if no one ever really sees you? That you don’t fit anywhere, in any group, because your desires don’t seem to match theirs? Moreover, have you any idea what your desires actually are? Or are they amorphous, scattered, and confusing even to yourself?_

 _Crowley_ , he imagines asking, _am I alone in all this?_

But he can’t ask Crowley any of that. He already knows the answer.

And so, sometimes, he turns to Her.

Not through proper channels, of course; that would be too humiliating and too difficult to explain. Instead, he kneels and clasps his hands together like the human he is not.

“Make me like them,” he begs.

Whether he means like the angels, or like the humans, even he doesn’t know.

And, of course, he never receives a response.

So he gets up. He goes to his books and his tea and his warm blankets. He lets Crowley take him to theatres and markets and festivals. He reads and he listens to music and he indulges Crowley’s less harmful whims.

Mostly, he avoids thinking too much for too long about his own silly heart and his own stupid mind. Human concepts, anyway, and he’s clearly not one of them. But in the quiet moments, sometimes, he cries and wishes to love in a better way, in a way that feels unbroken and complete and right. A way that makes him feel like he is enough. A way that enables him to be loved back.

On one such night, his phone rings. He lifts his head from his hands, swipes a sleeve across his eyes, and answers.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley says.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says back.

Aziraphale doesn’t quite know _how_ he loves. His love dwells within a gray area, unreachable and unknowable and apparently undesirable, but in these moments, he knows without doubt that he _does_ love. Knowing Crowley has sought him out despite his inadequacies and broken pieces makes him practically shake with it, shine with it.

“Let’s go do something,” Crowley is saying. “You and me, yeah? Let’s have some fun.”

Aziraphale blinks hard. “Yes,” he manages to whisper. “That sounds lovely.”

“Good, because I’ll be there in two minutes. Grab your coat.”

Without another word, Crowley hangs up. Aziraphale puts the phone receiver back in its cradle, and a few more tears leak out of his eyes.

He wants this to be enough. _He_ wants to be enough.

He doesn’t think he ever will be.

Still, Crowley is on his way. Aziraphale goes to find his coat.


End file.
